Cotton's Law (9781101553848) (27 page)

F
riday morning dawned clear and cool. Shortly after dawn, Cotton arrived at the jail to see if preparations were under way to handle what he figured to be a dangerous situation. Jack, the liveryman, and two young men he’d recruited to help with the straw and hay bales, had the street at the end of town pretty well blocked off. They’d even found some empty crates and a couple of broken-­down wagons to add to the blockade. Jack was shouting orders like a drunken general. When he saw Cotton, he thanked the others for their help and ran up the street to meet the sheriff.

“Mornin’, Sheriff. Figured we’d best be ready for whenever they decide to come,” Jack said.

“Good job, Jack. All that stuff in the street ought to at least slow them down.”

“You know, if they come a-­shootin’, we’re goin’ to have to throw some lead their way. How do you feel about shootin’ at our neighbors?”

“I don’t plan to have to. I hope when they see the firepower
we’ve mustered, and the blockade you’ve put together, they might just rethink their intentions.”

“You hope?”

“I hope.”

“Not sure hope is goin’ to be enough. You should have looked those men in the eyes as I did. There ain’t a lick of hope left in ’em.”

“There better be a few cooler heads in the crowd.”

“Did Havens say he’d send his polecats out to play in the dirt?”

“The stubborn jackass didn’t say. But he will. I had to appeal to his logical side.”

“Logical side? What side is that?”

“The one that’s scared to death of bein’ strung up like a smoked ham.”

“You haven’t said what we do if shootin’ starts.”

“Shoot over their heads or at the ground in front of ’em. Maybe we can spook their mounts and cause enough confusion they’ll see it ain’t worth the pain.”

“That’s fine for you, me, and Henry, but who’s goin’ to tell those gunslingers that they aren’t supposed to kill no one? That’s what they do for a livin’, you know,” Jack said with a scowl.

“I plan to place them between us and the ranchers. That way, if one of the cowboys goes down from bein’ shot by a Havens man, whoever shot him pays with a bullet himself.”

Jack stroked his chin.

“You know, Cotton, that idea just may be a stroke of genius, something I seldom am forced to portray you as bein’.”

Cotton looked around to see Sleeve Jackson, Plink Granville, Black Duck Slater, and Thorn McCann coming toward them. McCann, still in the guise of Comanche Dan, spoke up.

“Sheriff, Mr. Havens said you might need some help with an army of disgruntled ranchers coming to take him to task for his contractual language. That right?”

“Interesting way to put it, but, yeah, that about covers it.”

“What do you want us to do?”

“First off, I don’t want the street littered with dead ranchers. They aren’t gunfighters, just regular family men with an axe to grind with Havens.”

“So what are you askin’ us to do, throw rocks at ’em?” McCann said.

“Nope. Just want to scare them enough that they’ll turn around and hightail it back to their ranches. I want you men to shoot over their heads. I figure if we show we’ve got enough guns to hold off a small army, maybe, just maybe, they’ll rethink their plan. Any shots that get fired should be aimed
well
over their heads. Any of ’em that goes down, the shooter does, too.”

McCann looked at his companions and shrugged. No objections from any of the others, so he turned back to Cotton and said, “Okay. How soon they comin’?”

Before Cotton could say anything, a thunderous pounding of the ground sounded and a cloud of dust appeared over the hill no more than a quarter mile away. There appeared to be thirty to forty of them and they were riding hard.

“Right about now, Mr. Sobro,” Cotton replied to McCann. “Better get ready.”

Everyone but Plink Granville drew his gun. All were cocked and pointing in the general direction of the oncoming riders. Cotton and Jack both had rifles in addition to their sidearms, and both stepped slightly back of the line of gunslingers. Henry Coyote was stationed on Melody’s balcony with his Spencer repeater. As the ranchers reined in at the barrier, the man in the lead shouted to Cotton.

“Sheriff, better get that Havens fella out here or we’re comin’ in to get him.”

“Sorry, Abe, but you know I can’t do that. Now, why don’t you use your heads and turn around and ride on out. As you can easily see, there are seven men here, all armed and all very good shots. We could, if pushed to do so, kill every one of you twice over. I don’t aim for nothing of the kind to happen. But it’s all up to you.”

Plink Granville was weaving in an attempt to remain
standing. When he looked around and saw that all the others had their guns out, he started to pull his. His hand was shaking so badly, he couldn’t manage to get a firm grip on it, and he dropped the gun in the street. Because he didn’t keep his six-­shooter loaded with just five shells rather than six, as most gunslingers do, in case it should be dropped, Plink’s gun went off the second it hit the ground, sending a .45 slug into the pommel of the lead rider. The bullet missed the rider and the horse, but came close to both.

Cotton spun around ready to take out the shooter, but instead came to a realization of considerable importance: Plink Granville really wasn’t a threat to anyone but himself. The look on Plink’s face was that of a child expecting a scolding for spilling his milk. Cotton turned back to the crowd, as the kid stood embarrassed and shaky, unable to even pick up his own gun. His bleary eyes were unable to focus on what was happening around him, and he slowly turned to stumble back into the saloon.

But the shot had accomplished one thing. The ranchers must not have expected to see a bullet hit so close to the lead rider, and they were growing nervous. Cotton decided now was the best chance he’d ever get to push them to make their move.

“Last chance, Abe. The next one will be aimed right at
your
head and it’ll come from that Indian on the balcony with the rifle. I promise he won’t miss. Don’t make me give the word.”

Abe glanced up at the Indian, and then around nervously, all the while trying to keep his horse under control. The others were doing the same, looking from one to another for verification that riding out was an acceptable solution to their dilemma.

“I’m waitin’,” Cotton shouted.

Abe looked at the ground sheepishly, then turned his horse about and signaled the rest of the riders to head back the way they came. There didn’t appear to be any resistance to the decision.

Cotton said nothing as he headed back to the jail with Jack. Henry climbed down from his perch and joined them. Havens’s gunslingers wandered into the saloon. Not a word was spoken between them. One of Havens’s men picked up Plink’s revolver and stuck it in his gun belt.

T
he Coleman brothers, Farley and Cress, were taking their ease in their second-­floor hotel room in Albuquerque when a knock came at the door. Cress was sitting at a table near the window smoking a cigar, reading a newspaper. Farley was sipping a glass of Kentucky Bourbon, as he gazed out on the street below.

“Door’s open,” Farley called out.

A young boy opened the door timidly, his face showing both trepidation and inquisitiveness. The room he entered was the temporary quarters of two of the most feared gun-­slinging gamblers for many miles around. He carried a piece of paper, which he gingerly handed to Farley.

“What’s this, boy?”

“A telegram, sir.”

Farley fished in his pocket, retrieved a quarter, and handed it to him. The lad left without hesitation, uttering a whispered thanks and nearly tumbling down the stairs in his haste to leave all in one piece.

“Who’s it from?”

“Someone named Havens from Apache Springs.”

“What’s it say?”

“Says we’re about to come into some money. A thousand dollars apiece,” Farley said, handing the telegram to his brother. “Couldn’t have come at a better time, too, seeing as how we’ve pretty much worn out our welcome here.”

“Uh-­huh. Say, do you know who the hell this Havens character is?”

“Heard he’s one mean hombre. Never met him, but this here offer’s clear. We get to shoot ourselves a lawman.”

“I don’t suppose it happens to say which lawman, though.”

“That’s true. But what difference does it make? There’s two of us and only one of him. Simple. Ain’t a man alive that can take both of us at the same time.”

“Reckon you got a point. And last night seemed to prove it. When are we supposed to be in this Apache Springs? Never heard of that place, either.”

“Southwest of here, somewhere. At least I think so,” Farley said. “We’ll ask at the desk.”

“How long you figure it to take?”

“Couple days, maybe longer.”

“Then I reckon we best get started. All that money is callin’ to me like a long lost friend.” Cress put down the newspaper and went to the wardrobe to begin pulling clothes out. He placed a valise on the bed, opened it, and began stuffing in shirts, pants, socks, and other items a gentleman gambler would be expected to wear. Farley watched for a moment, then gulped down the last of his bourbon and followed suit.

As they went downstairs to the hotel lobby to check out, Cress asked the clerk, “Do you have any idea where Apache Springs is located? And is there a stage that goes there?”

“Certainly, sir. The stage that leaves in about an hour goes through there on its way to Silver City. Stage office is two blocks over.”

The two men thanked the man and headed for the stage office. “Let’s cut down the alleyway to avoid any contact
with the sheriff. I’m sure you’ll recall him saying we were to stick around until he could talk to the others in the game.”

“Yeah, I remember. Looks like this telegram came at just the right time to save our skins,” Farley said. “Someone is bound to figure out that little trick of dropping an ace right at the feet of the man who had almost taken every cent we had and called you on it.”

“It isn’t like he didn’t have it coming. Don’t forget he’d near cleaned us out three nights in a row, too. I
knew
he was cheating; I just couldn’t seem to catch him at it. So your choice was clear. Shoot the bastard.”

“My sentiments, precisely,” Farley said. “Lucky for us the sheriff couldn’t decide whether it was self-­defense or not. He didn’t waste any time warning us to stick around until he figured it out, however.”

He patted the bulge under his coat where rested a nickel-­plated, .38-­caliber Colt Lightning in a shoulder holster.

They hurried from alleyway to back street to alleyway, avoiding contact with anyone who might remember them from the card game that ended in the death of either a very good gambler or a very good cheater. They had no interest in hanging around to find out which.

Sleeve Jackson’s patience had finally run out. His hatred for Bart Havens coupled with a deep desire to get his hands on the two-­thousand-­dollar bonus for killing Cotton Burke were uppermost in his mind on that misty morning. He never did like the idea of sharing the bounty with others, either. And Bart’s distasteful treatment of a beautiful woman, Delilah Jones, had put the last nail in the coffin. He didn’t know whether Delilah would actually acquiesce to the dream he’d harbored ever since their first casual meeting, but if he could get her free from the clutches of her benefactor, he felt certain she’d at least entertain the idea of leaving with him for the gold fields of California, where he’d heard tell folks were picking up nuggets the size of a
man’s fist. At least that was his dream, and Sleeve was a man known to dream incessantly. And now the time had come to put all things right. He’d first kill the sheriff, then brace Havens for the money—­maybe even shoot the jackass for good measure after getting his hands on the cash—­then ask Delilah to accompany him to even greater riches in that far-­off land he’d seen only in his mind.

One at a time, he pulled his two revolvers from their holsters, half-­cocked each of them, then rolled the cylinders through, slowly. Loaded, ready. He’d not fortified himself with whiskey, as the others seemed to like to do. He needed his mind clear, his reflexes at their peak. He pulled his hat from a peg and placed it on his head. He stood up and began a slow walk to the batwing doors of the saloon, moving casually so as not to attract attention to his purpose. He stood at the doors, momentarily looking over them to assess the town’s activity, then pushed through. He walked to the corner of the saloon, then slipped down the alley—­his mission set, his attitude one of confidence, his stride purposeful. His destiny lay a hundred feet away and he was ready.
Prepare to meet your maker, Cotton Burke
.

Cotton and Memphis Jack were in the sheriff’s office making certain all the rifles and shotguns were cleaned and loaded. Three Winchester carbines were lined up on the desk, and a coach gun leaned against it. Several open boxes of ammunition were scattered about the desktop. There was a sense of impending danger within the community. Storekeepers felt it, as did those who came to town for supplies or entertainment. An unspoken awareness that one, or all, of Apache Springs’ recently arrived gun toters were planning to embark on something violent.